Mearsies Heili Bounces Back by Sherwood Smith Page B

Mearsiean land?”
    “It’s our word,” Sherry said proudly.
    “Seven adjectives and an insult,” I explained. “And they
have to be interesting words.”
    We began zinging our best ones back and forth cracking up so
much that we almost forgot why we were there, until suddenly it was our turn.
So we turned away, still laughing, and Puddlenose said, “I’ll be the goat.”
    “I’m PJ!” Sherry insisted.
    “Seshe’s funnier as PJ,” Dhana said. “She doesn’t laugh.”
    “I’ll be the farmer’s pig, then.” Sherry shrugged. She never
argued. “That’ll be extra funny, PJ trying to make a pig bow as well as a goat.”
    We were waved to somewhat impatiently by the man in charge,
and so we hustled out to the space cleared for the acts. Kids sat on the tables
as well as the benches and the floor around the stage area. Glowglobes marked
off the stage, beyond which the crowd talked, whispered, looked at us
expectantly.
    When Seshe drew up, nose high, at one end, and Puddlenose
bent over and acted goatish at the other, there were some snickers and giggles
at Puddlenose, but when they came together and Seshe started, “You! Why are you
not bowing?” nobody laughed. They waited for the joke.
    So I stepped out and said, “This is about a prince who
thinks he’s better than anyone else. His first rule is, whenever he meets
someone, they have to bow. Or they go to jail.”
    A few snickered, some murmured.
    “This includes animals,” I added. I laughed—I mean I thought
it was funny, but I was kind of laughing like a stupid laugh track on the earth
TV show I Love Lucy , to hint that funny stuff was coming. As soon as I
heard my stupid titter, and the silence after as the kids all waited for
something to happen, I began to get that distinctly nasty feeling that we were
about to lay an egg. A two week old one.
    ‘PJ’ marched forward a couple steps, nose in the air. Some
kids snickered.
    The farmer hastened up from the other end, pig in tow, but
Sherry was giggling more than she snorted, so she seemed more like a girl with
a sneeze problem than a pig.
    ‘PJ’ pointed a regal finger. “Bow! Then let me cross!”
    “Pow? Getcher hoss?”
    The farmer was supposed to be deaf, turning all PJ’s words
into pocalubes. But Gwen suddenly had stage fright—she just stood there,
staring at Seshe like she was the Evil Mage of Doom.
    “Me-eh-eh-eh!” Puddlenose said from behind. We’d never had a
pig before, so he just crawled out behind Sherry, looked around and made goat
noises.
    Some kids laughed at the goat noises—but when Puddlenose
tried to get by, Sherry was right in the way, giggling helplessly, which
started Gwen off. She bent her head and raised a hand to hide her face.
    “You must bow to me, then let me pass first. For I am Prince
Jonnicake the Magnificent!” Seshe proclaimed, too loud—she was trying to drown
out the giggles.
    I whispered to Gwen, “Stinkout smackdoodle, give me some
gas.”
    Gwen yanked her hand down. She said too fast, “Stinka
stinka, uh, gas!”
    A couple more laughs, but more rustles, and some whispers in
Mearsiean from the back, “What are they saying? What’s going on?” made me
mutter a little louder to Gwen, “Stinkorama smackadoodle—”
    Seshe waved her finger regally, but I could feel it, the
play was just dead.
    Gwen looked around, then plunged away, Sherry following, her
snickers almost as loud as the rustles and the “Do they know what they’re
doing?” comments from the back.
    Finally Seshe said, “You bow like this!” and
demonstrated—Puddlenose butted her—she flew across the room, arms windmilling.
    There were a couple laughs at that. Puddlenose grinned at
the audience, gave a loud goat noise, and came after us.
    As we passed by a clump of kids, a girl looked at my crown, sneered
on down to my bare toes, then back at my crown. She curled her lip. “If they
were even half as funny as they think they are, people wouldn’t be
asleep.”
    That made Id,